This Old House
by mad margaret
Summary: Part 5 of the Willie Loomis World Series, sequel to "Changes." Willie Loomis lives in a haunted mansion and works for a scary vampire named Barnabas Collins. This is not a complete redux of the original story, just a makeover. This Old House gets a fresh coat of paint. Chapter 6: Members Only. Willie becomes the vampire's personal dating service and appreciates generous gratuities.
1. Welcome to Hell

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Dark Shadows or any otherwise copyrighted material contained herein.**  
A/N:** Rewritten June 2013. Not a complete redux. More like a fresh coat of paint.  
The time period has been altered from the original series. Part I begins in 1956. In 1981, Willie is 24 years old.  
Barnabas' telepathic communications to Willie are _underlined and italicized._

* * *

**CHAPTER 1 – WELCOME TO HELL**

**November 1981**

So this is hell.

Willie remembered how Sister Mary Francis would sneer through her wire-rimmed spectacles, clobber him with a ruler and croak, "You are going to hell, boy!" Well, the old nun was right.

Sitting on the bottom steps of the staircase in the main hall, the young man looked out the open door at the early morning light filtering through the trees. Not many leaves left. Cold air blew in, but it was crisp and clean. The air inside was just as chilly, but musty and dank.

Willie and his new boss had moved into the dilapidated mansion the night before. Barnabas had seemed distressed at the condition of the house and at the same time exhilarated at its potential. What Willie saw was that, between the vermin in the basement, cockroaches in the upholstery, and bats in the attic, there was not a safe place to even sit down.

Vampire and servant had moved the coffin into the basement where it was displayed center stage in the main room. Then, candelabrum in hand, Barnabas showed him other subterranean chambers: the root cellar, the dairy cellar, the wine cellar, the scullery and the kitchen, which had all the charm of a deserted cave. The blackened fireplace took up most of one wall and was big enough to walk in.

On the ground level were the main entrance hall, a receiving room/parlor, library, ballroom, dining room and the butler's pantry leading to the servants' staircase and rear service entrance.

Upstairs were corridors leading to the nursery and assorted bedrooms. Barnabas pointed out the largest, which had tall windows and even taller ceilings; that would be his dressing room. He paused at a lady's suite. Willie waited silently in the shadows for him to continue. At the end of the hall, Barnabas peered in an unfamiliar room.

"Bathroom." Willie explained. The vampire frowned, unimpressed by the concept of modern plumbing and skeptical of running water.

On the third floor were the servants' quarters, segregated by sex into two hallways. To the left, Barnabas led him past rooms once assigned to butlers and valets to the second to last door. The master explained it was for the under footman. Willie's accommodations must be modest as to not consume valuable time. The smallest room, next door, was for the stable boy, but that didn't have a fireplace.

Left unseen was the attic, which was used for trunk and furniture storage and, from what they could hear, hosting bats.

As dawn approached, the vampire descended to his basement coffin for the day. He handed his cloak to Willie, who pounded a nail into the wooden beam nearby and hung it out of harm's way. As usual, Barnabas took his walking stick to bed with him like a damn teddy bear.

Now the newly appointed handyman was on his own until sunset. He had instructions to begin by cleaning out the master's suite and his room so they would be able to dress and rest in relative comfort. Then he was to proceed to the main hall and parlor. The only thing lacking was any sort of cleaning supplies. Willie wandered from room to room, exploring, investigating, evaluating.

He pulled white sheets off the furniture, raising clouds of dust and sending critters in all directions. Well, he would never be lonely in this dump; it was more densely populated than downtown Calcutta. Willie suddenly laughed out loud. If he were a cartoon, all the rats, bats and roaches would dance around and sing songs while they cleaned the house for him. His name could be Cinderfella.

From rummaging through papers in desk drawers, the young man discovered that this house was inhabited back in 1914. Parts of it looked as if the residents just walked out one day and never came back. The décor was a haphazard mix of 100 or more years, and portraits which spanned generations covered every wall and staircase. Marble statuary lined the main hall. By banging on the wall paneling, he discovered at least three secret rooms or passage ways. It filled every requirement of a haunted house, except the presence of ghosts and that, Willie was convinced, was only a matter of time. There was a rocking horse upstairs that moved, albeit crookedly, by itself.

He claimed two of the dust-cover sheets, shook off mouse pellets and put them aside for his bed.

The cellar storage rooms contained no foodstuffs at present but the whole place reeked of mold and mildew. The kitchen drawers housed some useful items and a small mismatch of cracked place settings. There was a rusty water pump which yielded nothing.

Eventually, he came across a maid's closet, from which Willie acquired a horsehair broom and copper bucket and headed for the second floor. En route to the master bedroom, he stopped in the mansion's only bathroom. There was a claw foot bathtub, a sink and mirror, a toilet (devoid of water) with a chain pull, and—another thing to sit on, like a European bidet, only made out of wood.

After concerted effort, Willie successfully rotated the spindled sink faucets. Air pushed through, followed by a belching spurt and a trickle of brown liquid. He would let that run for awhile; maybe it would get better.

In what would become the vampire's dressing room, the servant surveyed the scene in despair. Filth hung from everywhere, the furniture looked unsafe, broken glass and small rocks carpeted the floor. The house obviously had provided hours of target practice for the local lads in search of amusement. _Rotten little shits_, Willie thought, choosing to ignore the fact that ten years ago, he would have been standing right alongside them.

He swung the broom at a spider the size of a half dollar which dangled from the bed's canopy. The rotted material ripped and another layer of decay and dirt tumbled on the bed. Willie's patience was beyond thin. He swept the broom across the bed, knocking dirt onto the floor and looked around the room in frustration.

First of all, it was too dark in there to see a damn thing, due to the window dressing: voluminous velvet drapes, still burgundy in the creases but faded otherwise to a dusty rose. They needed to go.

Willie dragged the dresser across the floor to the window and climbed atop. Stretching on tiptoe to reach the supporting rod, he managed to unsecure it from its brackets, when the weight caused it to come crashing to the floor, bringing Willie with it. He landed in miles of filthy fabric which sent a cloud of dust flying up into the room. Something ran out from under the bed and made a hasty exit. Yelling in anger, he shook the pile, which only served to circulate more dust.

The servant disentangled himself and crawled out of the heap. Great, now he smelled as bad as the draperies. Willie headed to the bathroom where the running water had lightened to pale beige. Then he saw in the mirror he was completely gray, covered in dust.

_This is stupid; you don't pay me enough to do this shit._

Then he smiled at the irony. He stuck his head under the faucet to drink and then splashed water on his face. There was no towel, so he dried off with his filthy shirt, spreading the dirt into black streaks.

Willie grabbed his bucket and broom and made a fresh start in the third floor bedroom. He was suddenly grateful the room was so small. Barnabas was right; it was much more manageable. There were shutters on the window instead of drapes, and he opened them to find the glass was intact. With a little persuasion, the sash flew up, and a peek of sunshine and fresh air graced the chamber.

Starting at the ceiling corners, Willie knocked the cobwebs down, then raked the broom across the walls and windowsill. Finally, he swept the floor and gathered the dirt into a pile which he attempted to push into the bucket. Pleased with his progress, Willie unrolled the mattress on the narrow brass bed and laid down the sheets, tucking in the corners as he had been taught in school. He dumped his clothes from his duffle bag into the armoire, where he discovered a moth-eaten tuxedo and two shirts with funny collars—the livery of a previous tenant.

In the bureau he found cuff links and a little white bow tie, shaving mug, brush and strop. On top was a porcelain basin and pitcher. Under the window was a trunk, reminiscent of Jason's old sea chest, the interior of which was lined with 70-year-old newspaper and contained a striped pillow and wool blanket. The pillow smelled positively putrid, so he tossed it, but he couldn't afford to lose a warm bedcover. That was squeezed out the window, whereupon he slammed it against the wall to remove the little fuzzy white balls which housed spider eggs and the mouse shit embedded in its fibers.

On the desk was an empty oil lamp with a hurricane glass top. Inside the drawer was writing paper, a stub-nosed pencil and a stack of letters written in what looked like German or Dutch. There was also an old black and white photograph of a serious young woman in a white dress. Willie took out a sheet of yellowed paper and began to make a list.

Dustpan  
trash bags  
trash can  
real broom  
scrub brush  
window cleaner  
floor cleaner  
any cleaner  
rags  
paper towels  
ladder  
lamp oil  
lube oil – WD40  
soap - Lava  
dish soap  
Brillo pads  
sponge  
logs  
matches  
candles  
Raid  
mouse traps

His head was starting to nod; he hadn't slept since—hell, he hadn't had a decent sleep for a week, just random periods of unconsciousness, riddled with nightmares. Willie didn't want to close the window and thought instead of starting a fire, even though the little woodpile was crawling with tiny worms. He tossed the rotted logs into the grate, but they wouldn't ignite.

He and Jason were on a beach. He couldn't remember where, but it was nighttime, and they were roasting sausages and trout over a big bonfire. His partner got that one started with driftwood and little twigs and some papers which had to be burnt anyway. It was called kiddlin, and you needed that to get the logs to burn.

Willie looked at the love letters on the desk but dismissed the thought. Instead he pulled the newspaper liner from the trunk, crumpled it and stuffed it under the logs. The brittle paper went up in a flash and soon the logs began to sputter and pop.

The boy nestled himself between the dusty sheet and the musty blanket, using his arm for a pillow. He commonly used his Hilton Hotel robe for this purpose but didn't want it to get dirty from his hair. Christ only knew when he would next see a shower or a washing machine. Barnabas probably wanted him to bang his clothes on some rock by a river. For someone who pretended to be so smart, the vampire didn't have a clue when it came to a lot of modern things. That's why he needed Willie. That's why the young man was still alive.

As his lids drooped, the room seemed serene and warm. He could hear leaves rustling outside and smell the smoky fire. It was stupid to feel so complacent in this rat-infested shithole but, for the first time ever, the boy had his own bedroom, a private place to call his own. Not a sofa, motel, or a guest room, jail cell, berth or dorm. All his. Maybe he would put a poster on the wall.


	2. Basic Training

_**Please see Chapter 1 for additional A/N**_

* * *

**CHAPTER 2 – BASIC TRAINING**

Willie met the boss in the master bedroom and waited anxiously as Barnabas reviewed his list, crossing off the items of which he did not approve.

"Paper towels. Why would one make towels from paper? Ridiculous." He crossed it off. "Brillo pads? What are those?"

"For scrubbin' the kitchen pots. They're pretty gross."

"You have already asked for a scrub brush, or are you planning to use it once and discard that as well?

"No, it's just that—"

"Logs? Why on earth would you _buy_ logs? You go into the woods and you cut them. Have you even looked in the wood shed?" He crossed off _Logs_ and penciled in _Axe _followed by a question mark. "_Raid_? I'm afraid to ask."

"It's just bug killer."

Barnabas crossed it off, remarking that boric acid would be equally effective. "Is there anything else?" Willie looked down and answered softly. "Speak up, boy; don't mumble. What do you need?"

"Food?"

"Oh." The boss smirked. "You wish to be rewarded." He looked around at the disarray in his room, which actually looked worse than it did on the previous evening. "And yet, I see nothing which you've accomplished today to merit compensation. I am sorry, but I cannot condone this sort of work ethic."

Willie didn't want to tell the vampire he had worked on his own room before finishing the master's. He took a deep breath before proceeding.

"I'll do better tomorrow, if I can g-get some cleanin' stuff. I can g-go shoppin' in the morning and work all afternoon."

"And when will you provide my sustenance?" Willie looked puzzled; the vampire translated, taking a step towards him. "See to my needs?"

"At night." Willie backed away. "A cow, right? Another cow?" _Not me_.

Barnabas sighed with resignation as he took out his billfold. "I'm far too lenient with you," he said, handing his worker a $100 bill. "I want the remainder returned with all expenditures accounted for. Do you understand?"

"Yessir, you mean receipts. And the, uh. . . ?"

"Ah yes. You may purchase one item of food until you prove yourself worthy of more. You will earn your keep in this house."

"Yessir."

Barnabas regarded his grimy servant. "You remarked yestereve that we have a bathing room."

"Uh—yessir."

The master cleared his throat. "You have my permission to use it—at the earliest opportunity."

Willie looked at the money and stuffed it in his back pocket. The last time he saw a $100 bill, he was using it to snort cocaine at a disco lounge in Panama City.

* * *

That night, Willie and his wire-cutter visited the Haskell Dairy Farm where he made off with their prize heifer. He led it to the fence by the edge of the pasture where the vampire met both and commenced his evening ritual.

The servant was excused to return home and prepare for his master's return, whereupon he appropriated logs from the Collinwood shed and attempted unsuccessfully to utilize the parlor fireplace. Even the addition of Barnabas' discarded newspapers failed to ignite the damp wood.

One step from useless, Willie could try the patience of a saint; that's what he was told. An African right off the ship would know how to run a household better than he—at least know how to start a fire. Barnabas was forced to instruct his own servant in the basics of home maintenance. The young man felt, however, that assessment was somewhat unjustified, because he did possess other talents. After all, they wouldn't have any firewood at all if Willie hadn't stolen it for him.

_And why is there a pillow on the front lawn? _

Later, the master sat in a high-back wingchair by the roaring blaze and elaborated upon his ambitious restoration plans. Willie chose to sit on the floor, wary of what was living in the upholstered furniture and distracted by the curious cockroach traveling the length of the oblivious vampire's suit jacket.

Eventually Barnabas dismissed his servant, granting him a candle for personal use. Willie grabbed it and made his way upstairs without having to be told twice. He brushed his teeth and followed it with four glasses of water in an effort to fill the gnawing void in his stomach.

* * *

He was back in Togo, off the west coast of Africa, sleeping in a grass hut under a tent of mosquito netting. Outside a group of young men laughed at his ineptitude as they built their campfire and proceeded to roast the day's catch over the flame. The smell was irresistible but he was too tired to rise from the cot. From the shadows and the firelight there came a parade of spiders. Big, brown African spiders, marching in a row, they made uncharacteristically loud shuffling sounds as they strode purposefully into his hut, across the dirt floor, under the netting, up the bedpost, under his covers and up his legs. Soon they covered his body and, one by one, began to bite. He tried to brush and smack them away but there was always more; they kept coming, stinging and itching all over. Willie woke up scratching uncontrollably.

* * *

_Shoulda put a wind-up alarm clock on that list._

Still, he had saved one fake Rolex watch from his adventures in Atlantic City, how many years ago, and that would do for now. Willie washed up the best he could with cold water, a sliver of hotel soap and a sweatshirt substituting for a towel. He downed another quart of water, dressed in clean clothes and armed with $100, drove into the village where he filled the gas tank, and hit the hardware store and the grocery.

All day long, Willie scratched and clawed until his skin was raw, but the handyman was determined to have a successful day. He dusted, wiped, mopped and swept late into the afternoon, frequently reminding himself that a can of Beefaroni awaited him on the kitchen table. Shortly before five o'clock, he rinsed and stored his cleaning supplies and ran downstairs like it was Christmas morning.

He threw open a utility drawer. Then another. Then all of them, followed by the cupboards. _SHIT!_ There was no can opener, and no time to go back to town. He pounded ineffectively at the container with other kitchen tools before tossing it across the room. Minutes before sundown, the boy grabbed his car keys and ran out the service entrance.

Willie knocked tentatively on the kitchen door at Collinwood, then harder when there was no response. He was about to leave when Mrs. Johnson appeared at the entrance.

"Willie Loomis?" She was shocked to see him at the bottom of the steps. "What on earth are you doing back here? You left town."

"No, actually, I didn't. It-It's a long story. I need your help."

She shook her head uncertainly. "You remind me more of my Harry every day. Are you in trouble?"

"No—well, I hope not. It's just—could I borrow a can opener? Please? It's really important."

With an expression of obvious conflict, Mrs. Johnson told the scruffy young man to wait there. He shivered on the doorstep until the housekeeper returned a short time later with an old turn-crank can opener. "Now, take it and skedaddle." She reached down and patted his head, made a face and wiped her hand on her apron. "You need to wash your hair." She closed the door without another word.

He turned and ran down the driveway, tripped and knocked over the trash can, spilling its contents.

_Shit_, he was always leaving messes for Mrs. Johnson to clean up. As he scooped the garbage back into the can, his eyes met with an irresistible sight: an apple, only one bite gone, and a half eaten peanut butter sandwich, obviously from David's lunch. Willie shoved the sandwich in his mouth and munched on the apple as he raced back to the Old House.

Barnabas was waiting for him in the parlor when he burst through the service entrance door. A ledger was open on the desk where he sat, experimenting with a new-fangled fountain pen.

"Come here, boy." Willie complied. "Did I not say you are to be at my coffin the moment I arise each evening?"

The servant shrugged. "I dunno," to which Barnabas rose and grabbed him by the throat. "I mean, yessir."

"Where were you?"

"Collinwood. I had to, uh, b-borrow somethin'."

"And eat from a refuse bin?" The vampire pushed him away, and he lost his balance. "That meddlesome housekeeper probably saw you through the window. A member of my household cannot be seen to beg or accept charity; is that clear?"

Willie got back up on his feet. "Yessir."

Barnabas sat at the desk, trusty walking stick by his side, and fountain pen in hand. "I will review your accounts now."

Willie emptied his pockets and dumped a handful of crumpled bills and receipts on the ledger. The vampire gave him a disgusted look and proceeded to decipher their content.

"What is this?"

"Gas. I f-filled up the pickup tr—"

Barnabas whacked the stick across the boy's leg, which caused him to flinch and jump back. The master did not look up. "You did not have permission for that expenditure."

"But I can't—"

"Do not spend my money without leave to do so. And if you move away again, it will be the worse for you." The young man hesitantly stepped back to where he belonged.

_Better tell him the rest and get it over with._ "I bought a cage—it was important; we need it to trap rats." Barnabas struck him again. Willie grabbed his leg and inhaled sharply through his teeth, but did not move.

"You are presumptuous. What else have I purchased without foreknowledge?"

Willie thought hard, recalling the list in his mind. He began with trepidation. "One, just one, D-Duraflame log. It's so late when I get to my r-room, and they were on sale—Owww." His eyes watered as Barnabas hit the same spot.

His master closed the book. "You must learn to plan ahead. Determine what will be the presumable outcome, then the possible one, and prepare accordingly. Our existence depends on it. Do you understand?"

"I think so." Willie felt he would understand better if the boss spoke like a normal person.

I trust you won't make the same mistakes again."

"No. . . sir."

The vampire produced Willie's canned dinner from the desk drawer. "Since you have already indulged in your meal for today, I will safekeep this for you until the morrow." He rose and donned his wool coat. "Shall we go to work? Tanner's tonight, if you would. I'm famished." He left by the front door.

Willie stared at his Beefaroni, for which he had worked so hard that day. He punched the chair in which his master had sat.

"Willie!"

He left the can opener on the desk, scratched his ribs, and limped out to the truck.


	3. Jackpot

**A/N: Please see Chapter 1**

* * *

Willie was in a corridor lit by a succession of ensconced candles on the wall. He had had this dream before. Occasionally the candles were dim, at other times they radiated brightly. There were two openings. One was the door to Barnabas's mind. Unless the master wanted him, it was always closed. The other portal was to Willie. It was not clear if he even had a door, to ensure that he could never keep a secret from the vampire.

Now the lambent glow revealed Barnabas' door gaped open, and his distant voice called out for Willie. He looked in and observed Barnabas returning to the Old House, searching for his servant. The master descended the stairs to the basement and, sensing light and sound emanating from the kitchen, proceeded to investigate.

A hearty blaze shone in the fireplace, coming from a single log that needed no kindling and left almost no ash. In his vision, Willie watched the vampire, who stood before the fire looking down at his manservant as he lay atop the kitchen table, curled up and fast asleep.

Barnabas poked the boy with his stick and the dream ended. Willie felt the wooden surface beneath him. "Why are you here?" he heard as head came up drowsily.

"Bugs," he mumbled and went back to sleep.

The boss poked him again, requiring more of an explanation. Willie sat up, his head still disoriented. "Bedbugs. In the mattress, see?" He lifted, one by one, the three layers of clothes he wore to bed to show the vampire his midsection. Barnabas was taken aback at the distasteful sight of the man's protruding ribs and sallow skin, pockmarked everywhere with swollen red dots interspersed with scratch marks and fading bruises of green and yellow. Willie noted his reaction and recovered himself in embarrassment.

"Go to your room and sleep on the floor by the fire," the master instructed.

"I can't. There're rats under the bed gonna bite me."

Barnabas considered his emaciated manservant who looked lost under so many clothes. "Very well. Sleep here tonight if you must. Tomorrow you may trap the rodents and get new straw for your mattress." Willie nodded _._ "Oh, if you capture those rats alive, save them for me," the vampire added as an afterthought.

"Yessir." _Good._ _That's killing two birds with one stone_.

"For someone who barely reads, you can quote Thomas Hobbes.(1) Incredible." Barnabas left the room.

Willie did not go back to sleep. Though that dreamlike door he watched Barnabas pause before his coffin, considering the practicality of finding a new manservant—one who was more obedient and loyal, smarter, more skilled, healthier—someone like Ben Stokes. Two tears ran sideways over Willie's nose and down his cheek as he wondered how much longer he had to live.

* * *

Later that morning, Willie stuffed clothes in his duffle bag with lightning speed. That was a skill he did have, one taught to him as a kid many years ago—what Jason called the hasty exit. He wrapped his razor carefully and shoved it to the bottom of his bag when he felt paper. He pulled out a bulging envelope and his jaw dropped. How could he have forgotten there was almost $500 sitting in his bag? This changed the game.

Okay, here's what could happen: Willie takes off now with his cash and whatever other valuable stuff falls into his pocket on the way out the door. Barnabas knows about it but is helpless to interfere until nightfall, by which time he would be in Boston or Nova Scotia. But, as the bat flies, the vampire catches up, drinks all Willie's blood, puts his body through a meat grinder and hangs his head on the front door as a warning to other disobedient servants.

Or . . .

Willie takes this money and buys all the stuff he wants and needs to get better and stops being such a pain in the ass. Barnabas is thrilled at his reformation and decides to keep him and not Mr. Perfect Ben Fucking Stokes, whoever he is.

If it doesn't work out, he could always run away and get killed later.

Willie stuffed a $50 bill in his pocket and the rest in his shoe, for old time's sake; It was almost as good as having someone's unreported credit card, that feeling that you just hit the jackpot and were going shopping. He swung open the front door and screamed.

Miss Winters screamed too. She stood on the other side of the entrance her hand poised to knock. Victoria backed away in alarm and almost tumbled backwards down the steps. Willie lurched forward to grab her, but she screamed again, her hands flying in his face.

"Help! Someone, help!"

The young man backed off as she flailed at him. "It's okay—I'm sorry! I just didn't want ya to fall."

Victoria leaned against the pillar and caught her breath, glaring at him. "Stay where you are, I have a gun." She clutched her handbag.

Willie knew that was bullshit but raised his hands in the air. "Look, I was just tryin' to help."

"Or you're trying to rob this house—Mr. Collins!" She called. "Mr. Collins, come here please!"

"He's not home. He's . . . away. On business. Won't be back 'till tonight."

"How do you know?"

"I work here."

Victoria pursed her lips in disbelief. "Why would Mr. Collins hire a man like you?"

"I dunno." He looked at the ground. "I helped him out. He had a flat tire out on the road the other night, and I changed it for him."

She seemed uncertain. "Is that the truth, Willie?"

The young man looked her in the eye, unblinking. "Swear to God."

Miss Winters shook her head. "Mrs. Stoddard isn't going to like this. She would like to invite Mr. Collins to dinner this evening."

"I'll give him the message." Willie saw her peeking past him into the house and blocked her view. "Look, I gotta do some errands in town. Do ya wanna lift back to Collinwood?"

"No, thank you," she replied, as yet unconvinced of his innocence. "I'll walk."

* * *

Willie's first stop was the department store where he bought a firm, sweet-smelling pillow and the nicest twin mattress and box spring set in the economy section. The salesman threw in a complimentary adjustable metal bed frame, which his customer didn't need but accepted anyway.

Then the handyman hit the coffee shop and devoured scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee with lots of cream and sugar. The pretty waitress kept an eye on him, watching for trouble, but he kept his head down and left her a $3 tip on a $2 bill.

At the drug store he bought a first aid kit, cigarettes and a Snickers bar. If Jason were there, he would've purchased _Playboy, _but you couldn't even find thatmagazine in Collinsport. Willie loitered by the magazine rack nostalgically perusing his favorite comic books: Superman, Avengers, X Men, Wonder Woman, Batman—the drawings looked different, but a lot of his old friends were still around. As a kid he spent hours reading at the variety store on the avenue, because he would never shoplift in there. Old man Kramer had eyes like a hawk.

A man behind the counter cleared his throat. Willie looked around to see the pharmacist, who informed him that this was not the public library. The young man threw a Spiderman comic in his basket and moved along.

The Goodwill Thrift Store did a booming business that day. Willie bought himself a clean cotton blanket; towel and washcloth; flannel sheets; thermal underwear; sweat pants; jeans; sweaters; work gloves; work boots; a long, red, knitted muffler and an enormous quilted parka. Come winter, he was going to sleep in that. He also bought a beat-up transistor radio, another flash light and a can opener.

At the sidewalk stall of the used bookstore he spotted a book on home repair and improvement called _This Old House_. He had to buy that; there was an entire chapter on plumbing that would be very good to know.

Last stop was the grocery store for canned goods that wouldn't spoil, a jar of peanut butter and a bottle of rum.

Of course, the bloodsucker still had to be in charge, so he wouldn't eat any of that until permitted to do so, but it would be ready. True, he did have breakfast; he forgot about that. So, to make it up, the boy bought a new Bic lighter and a case of Duraflame logs. Strangely enough, Barnabas thought them a wonderful invention and approved their use. That wouldn't last for long, Willie surmised, when he realized how expensive they were.

The servant returned home, unpacked and tucked his purchases safely away. His old mattress was hauled down to the wine cellar, which already smelled like something gone sour. He was at the ready by the vampire's coffin when Barnabas rose, candles lit.

"Oh," the master said with mock surprise. "You're still here. I thought you decided to leave."

"No, sir." He quickly changed the subject. "Vicki Winters was here today. She, well, Mrs. Stoddard invited you to dinner tonight. They usually eat around seven."

"Charming. While I am gone, you may have a small supper. Then I will meet you at midnight at Tanner's Farm. Is that understood?"

"Uh-huh, I mean, yessir. I'll be there." Willie assumed he was dismissed and started to leave.

"Oh, Willie." He turned back. "Where exactly did you acquire all the money you spent so frivolously today?"

"It's m-mine, really. Uh, Jason gave it to me, to help me out, when I was s'posed to l-leave town." The boy didn't know why that came out sounding like a lie when it wasn't.

"I see. And how did Mr. McGuire come across such a large sum, I wonder."

"I dunno. B-but I got it from him, I swear. I didn't steal it."

"I didn't say that you had."

I just bought some stuff I needed so I wouldn't have to ask you. T-to save ya money."

"In that case, your meritorious conduct today pleases me." To Willie that sounded like something good, so he smiled.

Tell me, has your bedbug problem resolved itself?"

"Yessir. I hadda get a new mattress 'cause they don't use straw anymore. But we got bugs in them other beds and furniture too. I'm gonna get rid of 'em tomorrow."

"Very commendable. You may go now." Barnabas flew off.

Willie breathed a sigh of relief.


	4. Invasion

**A/N: **Barnabas' telepathic communications to Willie are _underlined and italicized_.  
Please see Chapter 1 for additional a/n.

* * *

_Willie, where are you?_

_Don't go there, Barnabas; it's not safe. Come home._

* * *

Willie was in the parlor, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and hoodie. A bottle of disinfectant and cotton balls were on the floor.

"What has happened?" Barnabas entered and hung up his cloak and cane. "Why are you burning your breeches?"

Willie sat in front of the fireplace poking his jeans into the flames. "They got dogs now at the Tanner Farm—three of 'em—and there was a cop car in the driveway that turned on its headlights." He shuddered and jabbed harder at the timber. "Dunno if they gotta good look at me or the pickup, but I think maybe they did, they'll come here. When they see my ripped pants with blood on 'em, they'll know it was me."

"Were you injured?"

"Not bad." Willie showed him the bite marks on his ankle and lower leg. The wounds stung a little but had, for the most part, stopped bleeding. "Mostly got my jeans. Gotta scrub my sneakers next; they're fulla mud."

The servant was perplexed when Barnabas knelt on the floor beside him to give the injuries closer examination. He lifted Willie's leg slightly and drew it to his mouth.

"Hey, what the fuck—don't do that!" He pulled back, scooting across the floor and grabbed at his sweatpants which caught on the rug and didn't scoot with him. The vampire clamped his hands around Willie's leg and ran his tongue along the young man's abrasions.

"Oh, shit—stop it!" He writhed and kicked until Barnabas grasped the boy's ankle and pulled sharply, intensifying the pain. Willie yelped.

"Hold still, you fool. When the authorities arrive tomorrow, you will have no marks, and there will be no evidence."

The servant sighed, "Okay." He collapsed onto the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. It still felt creepy.

Later, in the privacy of his room, Willie lit the oil lamp and checked out his damaged ankle. If you looked very carefully, you would swear you could _see_ it healing, like a time-lapse sequence in a movie. Okay, that was cool, but Barnabas was just weird. You don't go around licking people's legs like that. That was not cool.

His energy spent, the boy threw some wood in the fireplace, exchanged his hoodie for a tee shirt, and crawled beneath the covers. Reaching to the small table next to his bed, Willie lowered the lamp's flame to provide a little night light. What a chicken shit he had become. The young thug had been to prison, gone up against pirates and gangsters, but now, after being holed up in a mausoleum for just a few days, all of a sudden he was terrified of the dark. He shuddered at the sounds of floorboards which creaked when there was no footfall, the rustling of wings in the attic, window panes that rattled against the hilltop wind, and unearthly moans that haunted the chimneys.

Just old house noises, Willie reassured himself as he drifted off to sleep. He was secretly relieved their farmyard adventures had come to an end. Perhaps the nightmares would stop now—the frantic, struggling cow, screaming for mercy, a makeshift leash tethering both the beast and the man as she ambled away, trampling Willie, or dragging him though the mud. Even death would bring no peace to the animal, as she would rise again to seek revenge. Beside her was another cow, and another—all staring at their assailant with hatred and accusation.

No more cows. No more cows—but what would the alternative be? _Gotta think about that . . ._ _tomorrow . . ._

* * *

The fire must have gone out—and the lamp. But, as the room came into focus, the boy realized Barnabas' silhouette hovering over his bed, eclipsing the light. Startled into a state somewhere between nightmare and consciousness, Willie yelled, scrambled back and became tangled in the bedcovers when he hit the wall.

"No!" he hollered as Barnabas seemed to fly towards him and, grasping his forearms, pinned him to the wall, where he struggled fiercely at the injustice. "Sanctuary! Sanctu—ary!"

Willie drew up his knees to push him away with violent thrusts but, undaunted, Barnabas drew him close and twisted the young man's wrists to fling him back onto the mattress, securing his arms at either side. Willie's cry of desperation echoed through the empty house.

"Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" (2) The vampire referred to their earlier encounter in the parlor. "I have not fed this evening."

"I don't care! This is MY room—!"

Barnabas continued to restrain his victim. "And you thought what? That here you would be safe from me?" He smiled and licked his lips.

"It—it's mine; you can't—come in here!"

He bucked and kicked harder, like a wild animal, and with a fury that even knocked Barnabas off balance. The vampire grew tired of this game, and his initial expression of bloodlust changed to that of irritation. He lifted Willie up and flipped him over, sending him face down on the bed. Barnabas held him still and spoke softly in the boy's ear.

"You are my slave, to use as I will. You have no rights. You own nothing." The vampire sank his fangs into Willie's neck.

The young man wanted to pass out afterwards, but he didn't. That gray, fuzzy feeling was there, but not enough to overcome conscious thought. The vampire stood across the room fingering his servant's possessions—what he had thought were his possessions. His master smiled and spoke genteelly, but Willie couldn't decipher most of what was being said. His hands were bound to the rails of the brass headboard and, as he struggled to turn onto his back, tangled his oversized sweat pants and twisted the binds so that they dug painfully into his wrists.

"What _are _you doing? There's nothing to bind you there." Willie brought down his arms, staring at them, unfocused. It had been an illusion. The vampire smiled, almost apologetically. "Calm yourself. That's just one of my little amusements."

Barnabas continued to chat as he perused the letters in the desk, recounting various incidents from Willie's past, some of which the young thief didn't remember, and none of which he wished to share.

"I imagine you would rather be restrained in silk ties by a beautiful woman in Central America."

"Raquel," the boy murmured, adding with a note of sarcasm, "Hope ya got an eyeful."

The vampire smiled, choosing, once again, to ignore the boy's disrespect. "What a confidence artist you were, but we change, don't we? We all change." Willie nodded as his eyelids drooped.

"I asked you a question." Barnabas was standing by the bed, in his face. "Where did you learn the word _sanctuary_?"

"I dunno," he mumbled, "from a movie—comic book, maybe. Ugly guy lives in a hunchback. I mean old church."

"I'm not familiar with it, I'm afraid. Yes, churches are known to provide sanctuary but, you see, you do not live in a church."

He patted Willie's arm with what looked like affection, and closed the door gently as he left.

_No, I live in hell. _

* * *

_John Karlen Update: Johnny is at Studio City Rehabilition Center, 11429 Ventura Blvd, Studio City, CA 91604 in Room 10. Adam (his son) says our guy could use some major cheering up so everyone please write a letter or send a card._


	5. Pardon Our Appearance

_Please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

Willie sat on the window seat that looked out to the front entrance. Dressed in sweat clothes with the red muffler hiding the wounds on his neck, the young man waited for the law to show up, not knowing if the knot in his stomach was in anticipation of talking to a police officer or from his cold breakfast of bitter, black coffee and Spam, which he ate out of the can. He might as well buy dog food next time; it was cheaper and tasted the same.

With a tarnished spoon, Willie stabbed at the potted meat until it was mush and decided to pretend it was crab imperial.

_Don't be guzzlin' down that delectable feast, _He imagined Jasonwas sitting beside him, correcting for the millionth time, the boy's atrocious table manners. _Enjoy fine food when you can,_ _but don't get used to it, 'cause your next meal is goin' to be slop._

Willie fought to focus his thoughts on such innocuous musings and avoid his real feelings. The vampire, dead or awake, could hear everything he said, spoken or unspoken. He had no right to private emotion and owned nothing, neither his past nor his future.

A feeling of surreal numbness overcame the young man as he leaned against the window pane and closed his eyes. He was back in that mental corridor, only the lights were dim now and Barnabas' portal was shut tight. Could he transmit thoughts through the closed door? Willie didn't know. He turned and crossed his own threshold, envisioning the room in which he sat as if his eyes were open. Upon closer examination, the servant discovered he did havea door, but it was open all the way, all the time. If he shut it, Willie was convinced he would regain some semblance of control over his life. . .

The boy wrapped his fingers around the heavy, wooden door and pulled. Harder. Using his entire body weight as leverage, he pried the door from where it nested flush against the wall until it moved. It was a fraction of an inch, but it definitely moved.

Outside the window came the sound of gravel crunching on the driveway. Willie opened his eyes to see a patrol car pull up in front of the house. Deep breath. No big deal, this was just a small town badge. He waited half a minute after the officer knocked before answering the door so it wouldn't look like he anticipated the arrival.

"Yessir?" The pale young man looked drowsy and a little confused.

"Sheriff Patterson," the portly policeman introduced himself and referred to a notepad. "Are you William Loomis?"

"Yessir. Is somethin' wrong?"

"Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"No, 'course not. C'mon in."

Willie escorted him into the parlor and scooped his breakfast from the window seat, apologizing for the mess. He offered Patterson a seat and a cup of instant coffee, which the sheriff declined as he, glancing uncertainly about the ramshackle room, got straight to business.

"I'm investigating some incidents at two dairy farms over the past week or so. Do you know anything about them?"

"Yeah, I read about it in the paper. Somethin' killin' off cows?"

"Or some_one_. Witnesses say that someone has a white pickup truck."

"Oh," Willie replied with sudden realization. "I have a white pickup truck. Is that why you're here?" Patterson nodded, scrutinizing the stranger. "But a lot of people drive those."

"That's true, and I'll talk to them, too, but you're the only one from out of town and who has a police record." Willie looked away in shame. "Ex-con, aren't you?"

"Yessir." He flashed big, round eyes and spoke with a hint of distress. "But I didn't hurt your cows, honest; why should I? I got a g-good job here workin' for Barnabas Collins, fixin' up this old house." The officer again eyed the room with skepticism, taking note of the mounds of melted candle wax on every surface, splintered paneling and peeling wallpaper. The servant shrugged. "It needs a lotta work."

"Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday between 11 pm and 1 am?

"Yeah, I was here, in bed. Mr. Collins can tell you, I been real sick—bronchitis, uh, walkin' pneumonia, some other stuff. Doc Woodard said I haveta stay in 'cause it's real contagious." He coughed in the sheriff's direction. "Sorry."

Patterson took a step away, covering his mouth. "Then why were you seen yesterday in several stores?"

"Only 'cause I hadda get supplies. I kept my scarf wrapped 'round my face the whole time," he demonstrated, covering his nose and mouth, but let the muffler drop when he went into another coughing fit.

"I'll be moving on," the sheriff initiated his retreat then stopped. "One more thing. Let me see your leg."

"Huh? W-what for?" The lawman gave him a look that said _just do it, _so Willie put his bare foot on the armrest of the nearest chair and pulled up his sweatpants.

"How did you know which leg I was talking about?"

Willie shrugged. "I didn't. Here's the other one." He switched legs and saw Patterson observing the bedbug bites. "Yeah, don't get too close 'cause I gotta that nasty rash all over. We're not sure what it's from."

The sheriff backed away towards the door. "Loomis, I don't want to see you in town until all these things are cleared up. You're going to cause some kind of epidemic."

"Yessir, I mean no, sir. I don't wanna hurt nobody."

Patterson exited to the porch with an expression of undisguised relief. Willie followed to the doorway.

"Sheriff? I was just wonderin'. It said in the paper that those cows died from losin' blood, but who would do that? They said it could be some kinda ritual, like with witches. Do you think that's what it is?"

"I think they want to sell newspapers and take advantage of over-active imaginations," he snapped. "Halloween is over; this is the real world."

"I hope so, 'cause that sounds scary. Bye, Sheriff. Good luck."

Willie closed the door and watched from the parlor window as the patrol car pulled away. Talking to the police was always nerve-racking, but there was something about successfully bullshitting someone, especially a cop, that made the erstwhile grifter feel a little more like his old self.

* * *

With renewed confidence, Willie devoted the day to casting out those over whom he held dominion: bedbugs, mice, cockroaches, spiders and rats. Although it was obvious the mansion would never be completely pest fee, by nightfall many battles had been won, and in the kitchen, a cage stuffed full of juicy rats was left out for the master's meal.

Beside the cage, the servant had placed an empty bucket. "You can put the dead ones in there," he explained to Barnabas, "like you was eatin' crabs. Then I'll dump 'em out in the woods later." Willie then left the vampire to dine in private, hoping that the rodents would be enough to satisfy him.

The next day he was cornering a particularly vicious little bastard when there came a knock at the door. He answered it to find his former partner standing there with a small bag in his hand.

"Pardon, but I heard a rumor that a gentleman friend of mine was stayin' here, so I've come to pay a call."

"Jason . . ." He retreated slightly into the doorway. "Uh, hi."

Willie wasn't allowed to let people in, especially a visitor for himself, but whatever was in that paper bag smelled damn good, and his olfactory instincts overpowered his better judgment. He stood in the doorway without further comment.

_Barge in_. _Go on, push me outta the way, like you always do. I can't stop ya._ After a moment, Jason did just that.

"Sorry, I didn't recognize you wearin' that apron and holdin' a broom there." The Irishman took himself into the parlor and sat, always at home wherever he went.

"The scuttlebutt at Collinwood is that Willie Loomis never left town, like he was paid to do. First, Miss Winters tells us he's workin', _workin'_ mind you, for Mr. Barnabas Collins. Then, doesn't Mrs. Johnson take me aside and tell me you've been lurkin' at the kitchen door, scroungin' for food."

Willie silently scrutinized the old man, who was looking dapper these days in yet another new suit and spoke like a snob, pretending like he had never eaten out of a trash can.

"That was an accident. I just went to borrow somethin'."

"Well, it doesn't seem proper, does it?" Jason remarked as he tossed the bag at the young man and produced a beer bottle from his trench coat pocket. He popped the top with the opener on his key ring and handed over the ale as well. Willie sat on the floor and tore open the bag. Wrapped in white butcher paper was a warm oyster po' boy sandwich on French bread. The kind they make at the Blue Whale Tavern.

Willie paused to let the aroma linger briefly in his nostrils before stuffing his mouth to capacity with the first bite. The older man observed him for a moment before continuing.

"You're welcome, and I'm fine, thanks for askin'. I've come into a bit of employment meself. Dear Liz has offered me a handsome post in the family business: public relations, and—oh, and somethin' I've always wanted: me very own Swiss bank account." The Irishman beamed with pride; Willie nodded his approval and took another bite. "There's only one snag. You were paid to hit the high road, and here ye be."

"Mmmjfth."

"Swallow."

"This j-job sorta just came along, and I'm not botherin' anybody. I'm sorry about the money, Jason, I spent it—most of it, anyway."

"It won't do; you still make people nervous, just bein' here. Liz is most put out about it. She's asked your Mr. Collins several times now to get rid of you, but he acts like he can't see to let you go."

"I'm doin' good work. When Mr. Collins is done, he'll get rid a' me."

"Really. And what service do you provide that could possibly be of interest to Barnabas Collins, I wonder." He looked suspiciously at Willie who chose to take another bite of sandwich and avoid the question. "Well?"

"I dunno," the boy shrugged. "I'm pretty good at spottin' rats."

* * *

Willie stood dutifully by his master's coffin at the appointed time of sunset. With feline grace, Barnabas alighted from the casket, caught his servant by the throat and pushed him away. This was becoming the vampire's traditional greeting. Willie landed on his butt and slid across the room till he hit a wall.

"What was that for?" The young man rubbed his neck. Barnabas was clearly in need of his equivalent of morning coffee.

"I do not need to justify myself to subordinates," he growled. "You will learn your place."

"Okay." The boy got to his feet, brushing dirt from the seat of his pants. "But how will I know what's right and what's wrong if you're gonna hit me either way?" he grumbled.

"I did not strike you!" The vampire grabbed his shirt front, raising his hand as Willie tried to protect his face. Barnabas waited until the servant lowered his arms before delivering a clout that landed him back on the floor.

"What'd I do?" Willie whined in confusion.

"That was for answering back." Barnabas left the room.

In the few minutes it took Willie to get up and make his way to the kitchen, the vampire had devoured every single rat. There were fewer caught that day. Barnabas sat at the table, by the light of a single candle, as his attendant picked up the body bucket and placed it by the door, after which he remained on the far side of the room.

"This is not a permanent solution," the master said at length, pointing vaguely to the cage, despondency in his voice. "I find it unsatisfactory."

"I know. I can tell." Willie sat on the work counter, in the darkness, out of the way.

"What is to be done?"

"W-well, I been thinkin' about it, if that's okay." The vampire nodded. "Ya know, it's d-deer huntin' season, they're just gonna starve out there in the woods if ya don't thin the herd before winter. Anyway, that's what I read in the paper. The only problem is, I can't catch a live deer, so, y-you'd have to do it yourself." There was no response. "You prob'ly don't wanna do that."

"I am weary of animals. I need human blood." Willie retreated further into the shadows. "Not yours. I want fresh, untainted, human blood."

_Slightly Soiled, that me._

"But, how ya gonna do that, Barnabas? The police are still lookin' for that last girl."

"You will find someone from a different place and bring her to me."

Willie's leg started to tremble, even more than the sounds coming out of his mouth. "No. I don't wanna bury any more b-bodies . . . please. Sir."

"The victims need not die, unless I wish it. Their wounds will quickly heal, they will forget the incident and return to their normal lives."

" . . . If you say so." Willie looked skeptically at the vampire. That had not been his experience thus far.

"Tomorrow evening, then."

"I'll go now." Willie jumped down from the counter. He didn't want to go to bed and leave a hungry vampire ever again.


	6. Members Only

**Please see Chapter 1 for A/N**

* * *

Ten miles outside of town Willie found a suitable dive called Mort's Bar & Grill. He had a bad feeling going in. The idea of getting some innocent girl drunk enough to pass out and stuff her in his truck just didn't seem right somehow. Maybe if she were a hooker he wouldn't feel as bad. At least he could pay her for her time.

There was live music on Thursday nights, and the sound was deafening. After scanning the room for single women, he approached a blonde with bright pink streaks in her hair, realizing too late that it was Carolyn Stoddard watching her boyfriend, Buzz, onstage with the _Rude Mechanicals_. Once again, she was drunk off her ass.

"Willie Loomis!" She screamed, pulling him into the chair next to her. "My favorite guy—I mean, _second favorite guy_!" she yelled to the stage. Buzz acknowledged by aiming his bass guitar at her, accentuated by a pelvic thrust.

"Hey, Carolyn," Willie said uncertainly, "I should go. Your boyfriend don't want me sittin' here."

"Buzz is cool." She confided in a slurred voice, "Buzz is _very_ cool. So, why aren't you out with your best buddy pal?"

"Jason and me aren't friends anymore." He nervously pulled out a cigarette; his hands were shaking slightly.

"Oh, right! You're with Cousin Barnabas now." She winked and took the pack from him, helping herself a smoke. "So, why _are_ you living there?" He lit them both. "The last time I saw you, you were going bye bye. _But little Willie, Willie won't—go home…_" She blew a smoke ring in his face. "Well?"

"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse, like in that movie."

"Uncle Roger says you're the pool boy. That's so funny, because Barnabas doesn't have a pool."

"Your uncle was just kiddin'. Mr. Collins hired me to fix up the Old House. I know a lot about carpentry and plumbin'."

"Well, good—for—you! Because my mother needed just one more thing to completely freak her out. Now, because of you, she's cancelled her wedding. That's why you're my favorite guy!" She threw her arms around Willie, gave him a big wet kiss, then spoke to him nose to nose. "All you have to do now is get that big Irish creep out of our house . . . I'll make it worth your while."

He was going to end up in so many different kinds of trouble, Willie didn't even want to think about it. He pried her arms from around his neck and grabbed the cigarettes.

"I gotta go." The handyman stood as Carolyn pulled at his belt buckle . "You're drunk," he said glancing up at the stage. "I know you're only seeing him to piss off your mom, but, ya know, Buzz is an okay guy. He's got a nice bike."

Carolyn began to bounce in her chair, blow kisses and wave at the stage. "I'm dumping him tonight after the next set." She pushed the young man away. "Bye bye! Little Willie, go home!"

Willie left the bar wondering if he was that obnoxious when he used to get drunk. He found another truck stop a few miles further down the road.

* * *

The following evening, Willie drove farther away from Collinsport, all the way to Bangor, which was 50 miles away. That would be a pain in the ass, making two round trips, totaling 200 miles, in one night, but at least he wasn't likely to run into anyone he knew. Maybe he could do the return trip in the morning.

He cruised the downtown streets in search of a place which might be frequented by a girl who would be willing to get into a stranger's truck. _Yeah, right. Whose stupid idea was this, anyway? Add vampire pimp to my job description._

Then he spotted it._ The Vampire Club._

The inside looked like something out of _The Addams Family_, with dark red walls and black drapes, chandeliers and candelabra powered with flame-shaped light bulbs; the phone booth was a coffin. There were strobe lights and dry ice on the dance floor. Vampirella tended bar.

Willie laughed out loud as he brushed aside a cotton cobweb and pulled up a stool. "I'll have a rat blood martini."

"Straight up or on the rocks?"

His smile dropped. "Just kiddin'. Beer'll be fine."

There was an equally interesting clientele. Guys and girls, sometimes indistinguishable from each other, dressed up like it was Halloween, with white faces, black eyeliner and candy-apple red painted on their lips and chins. Willie smiled at the thought of Barnabas dribbling like that.

A pretty, slightly chubby girl approached and sat next him. She had dyed black hair and enormous eyes.

"You're not one of us." She said mysteriously, staring at him.

"I guess you can tell. Is that alright? I mean, can I stay if I buy you a drink?"

Three Bloody Marys later, she introduced herself as the Countess Bathory. He responded that his name was Igor; he kissed her hand, looked at it, then removed her dragon ring and replaced it on her index finger.

"That's what real vampires do." He told her in confidentiality.

"What do you know?"

"I know a real vampire."

"Yeah, who?"

Willie smiled. "You know I can't tell you that. He would kill me."

"Are you his slave?"

He ignored the question, but instead looked about, checking for eavesdroppers, then looked into her eyes.

"He sent me here tonight to find you." The young man whispered seductively in her ear, "He wants to drink your blood."

She pulled away and stared at him incredulously. Willie held his breath.

"I'll get my coat."

The vampire's pimp stood abruptly and pulled out his wallet to pay the bill. "Meet me in the parking lot. White pickup truck."

* * *

The next night Willie was back on the road to Bangor, banging out _Bohemian Rhapsody_ on the steering wheel. The previous evening's adventure had gone off without a hitch. The vampire was happy. The countess was happy. Willie was relieved and happy. She had smiled idiotically all the way back to her apartment at 2 a.m., and was humming as he led her up the building steps. She fished out her key and blew him a kiss as he sprinted back to the truck, looking over his shoulder for witnesses.

No police cars came to the Old House the next day. Nothing of the incident was heard on the radio. The whole thing turned out to be a good idea, so he was going to try it again. Willie pulled into the parking lot of the Vampire Club at 8 o'clock the following evening.

His truck barely missed hitting a ghoul. Willie guided the pickup at a snail's pace to the center of the lot, parting a sea of gothic re-enactors that had gathered and were waiting for him. They clamored as he descended from the cab and mobbed him like a rock star until he escaped by climbing into the truck bed. The young man stood there staring in disbelief at the hoard of willing victims who had seen Frank Langella in the sexy _Dracula_ movie and wanted some of that action in real life.

Willie held his hands up. "Hey everybody, listen," he said too quietly, unaccustomed as he was to public speaking. This caused a roar, cheering and shouted questions. He looked around nervously, fearing that the ruckus was definitely going to attract unwanted attention. He took a deep breath.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he shouted, his heart pounding. The crowd silenced and looked expectantly at him. "If you got a question, raise your hand."

He proceeded as best he could, making up answers as he went. Yes, boys were okay as well as girls. No, there was no age limit, as long as they were at least 18. Hell, Barnabas had bitten that grandpa in the cemetery. How picky could he be?

"Okay, here's the deal. I'm taking one of yous tonight. Just one." The crowd protested as the boy lifted Vampirella into the truck with him. She may have been the bartender, he wasn't sure and it didn't matter; she was really hot, even wrapped up in her high-collared cape. "But, come back tomorrow—same bat time, same bat channel—and I'll bring instructions so everybody can have a turn." The group roared with disapproval. "Come on, you guys, knock it off!" he shouted in frustration. "There's gotta be some rules here!"

Willie waited in the cab with Vampirella until the crowd dissipated. She lit a joint and offered him a toke.

"No, thanks, I gotta drive." Then Willie realized what he had just said. He really _was _different._ Ch-ch-ch-changes._

"So, I get to meet a real vampire. Score for me." Smoke was starting to fill the darkened cab as she appraised the young man staring dutifully at the clearing parking lot, his left leg twitching. Maybe he was gay. "What do you get out of this?"

Willie tried not to gawk at the bodacious brunette. "Nothin' I guess."

"My job sucks too. I live on tips." She put the joint in his mouth. "Just a little hit." He obediently took a little hit. "How about you? Do you accept tips?"

The young man swallowed, and his eyes widened as Vampirella's hand reached out and turned his face to hers. "I dunno."

"I'm a big tipper."

Willie considered the situation ever so briefly. He didn't want to get in trouble, but the boss never said he couldn't "accept tips." And, oh God, it had been so long. He never even packed condoms in his pocket anymore. "I d-don't have anything—you know—"

"That's okay, I do." She pulled one out of her ample cleavage. "Cherry flavor."

* * *

The following evening he handed out slips of paper with numbers and dates on them. Each person was to meet him in the parking lot on a specific day at 8 p.m. sharp and should arrange to be picked up at the same place at 1 a.m. by a designated driver.

Willie would drive the lucky victim back east and blindfold them as they entered the sleepy village. They seemed to like that, as it added to the suspense. He would then escort the guest through the service entrance and into the ballroom. That particular room had been chosen for these rendezvous for a number of reasons, but mainly because there were no immediate renovation plans, and it reeked of atmosphere.

The walls were lined with period murals and full length mirrors, and the vampire's lack of reflection added to his credibility. It was furnished only with a red velvet chaise and a harpsichord, both adorned with authentic cobwebs and lit only by a candelabrum and whatever moonlight shone through the towering arched windows which looked out upon the terrace. The gothic guests never failed to be impressed.

Willie would leave them for just long enough and, with a flourish of his cape, the vampire would make his entrance. The cloak, it was determined, was essential to the mood of this piece. Barnabas would serenade his date with Mozart's _Fantasy in C Minor_ on the harpsichord, with which they were invariably enraptured. Willie, however, heard the same fucking song every night because, apparently, the master had a repertoire of one. At long last the meeting would climax as victim and vampire joined in their unholy alliance and, a short nap later, the guest would awaken to find the vampire gone and Igor waiting to drive him or her home.

Willie saw the advantages of this scenario. Most importantly, no one was harmed; on the contrary, everyone seemed quite pleased with the arrangements, and the ravenous vampire had no reason to invade the privacy of his servant's bedroom. The only drawback was the time he spent on the road and the wear and tear on his clunker vehicle. Some rides held him prisoner with inane conversation; others came with big tips. Barnabas never mentioned the tippers, so the chauffeur felt it safe to presume that it was an acceptable practice.


End file.
